


192X

by popsicletheduck



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst, Bad Puns, Drinking, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Toriel/Asgore - Freeform, Smoking, and then diverging like crazy, we're starting off vaguely following the canon plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popsicletheduck/pseuds/popsicletheduck
Summary: The year is 192X. A series of laws, known colloquially as the “Barrier Laws”, have kept monsters as second class citizens for centuries. In the bustling metropolis of Ebott, they’re kept strictly confined to certain neighborhoods. Despised, rejected, and trapped, is it any wonder so many turned to crime?At the head of all of it is Asgore Dreemurr, the King. Powerful, cunning, and ruthless, no one dares cross him or his second in command, Undyne, the Captain. Sure, there are others around, Muffet, Mettaton, the Temmies. They’ve all got their followers, their talents, their niches. Everyone eventually has to pick a side. But Dreemurr is in control and he won’t let anyone forget it.And darting through the background, allied to no one but themselves, are two skeleton brothers. Thieves, smugglers, informants, they do what they can to get by. After all, it’s a dangerous world out there.The kind of world where it’s kill or be killed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No one writes in a vacuum, so inspiration for this piece goes to nyublackneko for their mob AU, theslowesthnery for their gangster AU, and the beautiful "Never a Lovely So Real" by Kaesa, which I highly suggest that you go read, it's a masterpiece.

The rain blurs everything together, the endless drizzle washing the city into smears of dirty grey. The streets are quiet tonight, everyone driven inside by the damp. Well, almost everyone. Sans turns up the collar of his coat against the rain. The cold doesn’t bother him so much, but the rain is a nuisance, especially because he’d really like a smoke right now. But it pays to be out on nights like tonight, where nobody’s around except people who have urgent business. The kind of business they don’t want anyone else knowing about. The kind of business other people will pay to know about. Even the dirty dealers seem to have abandoned the streets tonight, though, and Sans finds himself completely alone as he tramps through the mud. Paps will surely throw a fit over the state of his shoes, but here on the edge of the Ruins pavement is rare, and any moisture throws the streets into a sodden mess.

He really could probably head back now. Some nights are just quiet, and if there isn’t anything going on then there’s no point to him being out here. Maybe just one smoke. Paps doesn’t really like him smoking inside anyway. It takes a bit more wandering, but eventually he finds a nice wide doorway with a bit of overhang to keep off the rain. The building it’s attached to looks abandoned, some old tenement house with the windows boarded up and the roof crumbling. Sans falls back heavily against the door with a solid smack as he digs around in his pocket for a cigarette and a match. The match flares briefly as he lights it, a tiny flicker of flame that nearly gets blown out before he can get the cigarette lit. But he manages with a practiced ease, and he’s just taken his first long drag when a voice from behind him nearly startles him out of his shoes.

“I’m sorry, is… is someone there?” The voice is feminine and hesitant, soft in a way he hasn’t heard in a long time.

Sans coughs a bit on a wisp of smoke inhaled the wrong way. “s-spell.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry Mr. Spell but-”

“you’re suppose to say ‘spell who’.”

“What?”

“y’know, for the joke. i knock and then you say ‘who’s there’ and then i say ‘spell’ so you say ‘spell who’. geeze lady, it’s like you’ve never heard a knock knock joke before.” Sans smirks, taking another puff.

“Oh, well then, spell who?”

“alright, w-h-o.”

There’s a peal of laughter, warm, genuine laughter from behind the door and Sans feels his smirk slipping into something a little more real. “Wow, didn’t expect you to be such a fan of bad jokes.”

“Oh but that was so clever! I didn’t expect my mystery caller to be quite this witty.”

“ah, sorry about that, ma’am. i’m really just using your door for a leaning post, didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“That is fine, you just… surprised me. That is all.” The woman falls silent, her voice replaced by the soft drumming of the rain, the creaking of the door as Sans shifts against it, the hiss of his breath. “Are you smoking?” she asks suddenly.

“yeah. i mean, i can move if it’s bothering you, i guess-”

“No, no, no,” she cuts him off. “Actually, I was wondering… do you have a spare cigarette?”

“depends,” he replies, fidgeting with the half full box in his pocket. “what are you willing to pay for one?”

“Twenty gold.” There’s no hesitation in her response.

“woah, wait, what? for a single cigarette?”

“Is that not enough? I could, perhaps, do twenty five, although-”

“nah, twenty’s enough.” _m_ _ore than enough_ , he could say, but he’s not about to turn down a generous offer.

There’s the rattle of a lock opening behind him, and then another, and then a third, and for a moment he even swears he feels a hum of magic before the door creaks open just a crack, just enough for a large white paw to slip through. The exchange is quick and silent. It’s easily the simplest and cleanest robbery he’s ever done. The locks rattle closed again, and there’s a huff and a contented sigh from the woman on the other side of the door. “It’s been so long,” she murmurs. “I supposed even old women have their vices.”

“heh. i ain’t judging. my brother, he doesn’t quite approve but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do, right?”

She laughs a little, a small dry chuckle. “I suppose.”

They sit in an odd companionable silence for a while, Sans watching as the smoke drifts off to disappear among the rain, scattered by the droplets. In the quiet he can just make out the occasional sound from the woman on the other side of the door. He allows himself to wonder for just a moment why she’s still there.

“knock knock,” he says.

“Who is there?”

“dishes.”

“Dishes who?”

“dishes a very bad joke.”

Her laugh is… it’s nothing like Paps’, loud and boisterous. It’s rich, and warm, and… It’s been a long time since he’s heard anyone laugh like that. He finds himself laughing with her, actually laughing, not because his shitty attempts at humor were any good, but because she has the kind of laugh that invites you to laugh with her.

“Oh dear,” she chuckles. “I haven’t laughed like that in so long.”

“well that’s a shame, you’ve got a real nice laugh.” The words slip out too easily, too comfortably, too casually, as if they were old friends and not complete strangers on the opposites sides of a locked door.

“Oh! Thank you. You are a very skilled comedian.”

“yeah, that’s me,” Sans mutters to himself, “just another comedian.” One last drag and he grinds the spent butt under his heel. “listen, i gotta go,” he tells the woman. “i’m sure my brother is wondering where i am. he gets cranky when i stay out too late.”

“Of course, you shouldn’t worry him. Thank you for the cigarette, and the jokes. The company was… appreciated. Good night, and be careful.”

“yeah, g’night.”

Somehow the rain seems colder than before. He tries to push the thought away as he trudges on, once again swallowed up the endless grey of Ebott.

* * *

 

Sans keeps his head down, one hand gripping his hat to keep it from being blown away by the wind that cuts right through him. It’s a bitterly chill night, one of those autumn evenings where winter seems to be creeping up behind your back, and he can deal with the cold but the wind is a damn nuisance. Dirt and garbage swirls around his feet with every step he takes closer to the Ruins.

It’s a last resort, and Sans doesn’t like last resorts. The more backups you have the safer you are and the less you have rely on other people, on strangers, because he doesn’t know her, he doesn’t, and he certainly doesn’t trust her, he doesn’t trust a goddamn person in this goddamn world except Papyrus, god, Papyrus, if this doesn’t work what’s he suppose to tell him, how is he just suppose to let his brother-

The door comes into view and Sans forces his racing thoughts to slow. It’ll work out. It has to work out. He’ll make it work out, if he has to.

 _Knock knock_.

One long, breathless moment passes, maybe she’s not here, maybe she’s out, how’s he supposed to know for sure if she is, would whatever magic he felt sealing the door before stop him if he tried to teleport in, could he get in another way, he knows how heavily locked the door in, could he pry off one of the boards over the window without alerting anyone or maybe-

“Who’s there?” There’s a hint of amusement in her voice and oh god she’s expecting a joke, he doesn’t have a joke, why doesn’t he have a joke, he always has a joke, he always has to have a joke, he, he-

“you still want smokes, lady? ‘Cause i’ve got a whole pack here, untouched, just 250 g.”

Sans just catches a muffled breath of a sigh through the door and he could swear that his soul freezes. “Yes, I am interested. Give me a moment to go and get you the money.”

Relief washes over him, cold as ice, and he tries to push it back because it’s not over, it’s not over until the money’s in his hands, it’s not over until the money in the grubby little paws of those demons, it’s not over until Papyrus is safe, it’ll never be over-

The clicking of the locks brings him back to the present. The exchange is as silent as before, the woman still staying firmly behind the door, but who is he to judge her on her privacy? He slides the coins into one of the inside pockets of his coat and feels some of tightness in his permanent smile loosen at the comforting weight. And when he speaks he can hear the note of careless cheer back in his voice. “thank you for your business, ma’am, it is greatly-”

“Who do you owe?” she cuts him off.

“what?”

“Who do you owe that money to?”

He sinks against the door with a humorless chuckle. “was I that obviously desperate?”

She pushes on as if he hadn’t said anything. “Will that be enough to satisfy your creditors?” God, there’s actual concern in her voice, actual, legitimate concern. Sans feels guilt creeping up his spine.

“with everything else i’ve managed to scrape together, yeah, this should be enough to get the little demons off my back.”

“Are you certain? Because if not-”

“why the hell do you care?” There’s more venom in the words than he intended, but he refuses to take them back. “you don’t know me! god, i’ve scammed you out of hundreds of g, why do you give a damn?”

There’s silence on the other side of the door for a long, long moment, and Sans is seconds away from just leaving when- “You are correct. I don’t know you, and perhaps I shouldn’t care quite so easily. But I have seen enough violence and misery in this world and I am tired of it. I will,” she takes a deep breath, “I will do what I can to prevent more of it.”

His smile edges into something hard. “you’re a better person than i am, lady.”

“I have made different choices. Who am I to say they are the correct ones?” Her voice is heavy with… regret? Longing? Frustration? He can’t tell.

He doesn’t have an answer for her question either, just like he doesn’t have an answer to all the other questions that swirl through his skull whenever he stops thinking long enough to give them room. Another gust of wind blows stronger this time, and for a fleeting thought he’s certain that insubstantial enough to just blow away, be sent tumbling through the air like another piece of garbage, an empty bag of bones.

“Knock knock.”

Sans jolts in surprise at the words. “...who’s there?”

“Little old lady.”

“little old lady who?”

“Oh, I did not know you could yodel!” She laughs, and Sans laughs too despite himself. Something in his soul loosens, just a fraction.

“okay, alright, i got one now. Knock knock.”

“Who is there?”

“boo.”

“Boo who?”

“sheesh, i know these jokes are corny, but you don’t gotta cry about it.”

The wind still blows through him, but this time. This time he feels solid enough to stand. Still hollow, still empty, but enough substance to at least stay on his own two feet.

Eventually her laughs quiet, and she speaks, softly and with that same kindness that he doesn’t understand, “If there is anything else that you need, please do not hesitate to ask. I… I cannot do much, but I promise that I will do what I can.”

“yeah, i’ll keep you in mind. and, uh. thanks. for, uh. y’know.”

“You are welcome. Come back anytime.”

“sure, i’ll be around. g’night.”

“Goodnight. Stay safe.”

As he walks away, Sans isn’t sure whether saying he would come back was a lie or not. Strangely enough, he’s not sure that he wants to know.

* * *

 

It’s late, it’s really pretty late and he really should be home, but the door is solid behind his back and somewhere up above the stars mix with wispy little clouds that change the familiar patterns into a constantly shifting kaleidoscope and her laughter is just so warm and comforting and okay maybe he’s a little drunk but just a little, just enough that some of the tension in his marrow is gone and the world seems just a little easier to deal with.

“alright, alright, alright, i got one. what do you call a fake noodle?”

“What?”

“an impasta!”

…

“To.”

“to who?”

“No, no, it is to _whom_.”

… 

"they’re all _tear_ able!”

…

“But I am afraid it is _pointless_.”

…

“all i did was take a few days off!”

…

“He is a small medium at large!”

…

…

Even when he stumbles home the next morning, bones aching from falling asleep sitting against the door and skull throbbing with the beginning of a hangover, his smile still feels a bit more natural than before.

* * *

 

“y’know, i never did trust stairs. They’re always up to something.”

She laughs, just like she always does, but it seems strained today. Almost forced, as if she’s laughing because she know that she should be instead of actually wanting to.

Sans shifts a bit, a slight scrape of bone on wood as he tries to settle more comfortably against the door. “hey are you alright? you’ve been awful quiet tonight.”

She sighs, long and low and soft. “What do you think of humans?” she eventually asks, her voice quiet.

“well, uh, i think they’re generally pretty awful, but that’s sorta my opinion on people in general.” He runs a hand over his skull. “where’s this coming from?”

“If.. if a human, a child, entirely innocent, were to… come out this door, would you protect them and see them safely across the river?”

He can feel his eyelights flicker at the request. “lady, that’s a suicide mission. the king, dreemurr, he wants humans, and i don’t think he’d have a problem killing to get them. and if the cops were to find a monster with a human kid… hell i’m not even sure they’d bother with a trial, might just string ‘em up right then and there.”

“Have you really no way to get them to safety?” she pleads, desperation coloring her words.

God, why was he even considering this? Sure, they were… well, maybe not friends, but they’d talk through the door at least twice a week, swapping jokes and talking about life, and sure he owed her for getting him out of a tight financial spot with the Tems, but hell, how could she possibly ask _this_ of him? He’d just… he’d have to tell her no, have to tell her that it just wasn’t possible, to find someone else, _something_. “i’d have to talk to my brother,” he finds himself saying instead. “and see if maybe i could pull some favors to get a car. that’s the only way it'd be possible.”

“Do whatever you think is necessary. I trust your judgment in this. But I will not see this child come to harm.”

Sans scrubs a hand over his eye sockets. “yeah. well, i guess i’ll be back tomorrow, then.”

“Hurry, please.” It’s nothing more than a whisper, barely audible through the door.

He hates the way his feet drag on the path back home, but no force on earth could push him faster as every step fills him with dread and guilt for a choice to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Slower and slower Sans’ steps drag, until finally, under the flickering light of a street lamp about halfway home, he stops completely. For a moment he just stares at the small flame, his thoughts caught in uncomfortable loops and memories he really wanted to forget. A web of possibilities branch out from this single decision, threatening to trap him in sticky threads of uncertainty and danger. How is he supposed to know, how is he suppose to decide, how is he suppose to keep Papyrus safe?

His mind suddenly clarifies into one thought, heavy and certain. He tugs a bit on the sleeves of his coat, and then it’s a step and a nod and a _jump_ and he lands in a familiar alleyway that smells of grease and disinfectant and charcoal. It’s not exactly a pleasant smell, but Sans doesn’t find it particularly off putting. In fact, it’s almost comforting.

Grillby’s is quiet and dark at this hour, closed and locked, but he knocks on the back door anyway. _Tap taptaptap tap._ _Tap._ It’s a code that’s his and his alone, and soon enough there’s a single answering _tap_ and the door swings inward just enough for him to edge inside.

The bar isn’t exactly busy tonight, but it’s not empty either. Mostly the regulars, clustered around the few tables scattered through the small space or leaning against the bar. The air is warm and hazy with smoke and a few casual conversations. Worn and polished wood gleams golden in the lamplight. A small radio hums and crackles softly in the corner.

“Hey, Sans!”

“Heya, Sans, you’re late tonight.”

“hey guys. yeah, just had a bit of business to handle.” His smile feels too tight at the edges, but no one says anything. Grillby’s is the closest thing the city had to a neutral zone, and no one wants to ruin that or, more importantly, incur the wrath of its owner.

An owner who was currently returning to his station behind the bar. Grillby gives Sans a nod as he takes his spot at the bar, sliding him his usual. Sans accepts the drink with a nod of his own before taking a long gulp with a slight grimace. It’s cheap moonshine, practically pure alcohol, and it tastes like shit but it’s just about all he can afford. He lets the artificial warmth of the booze wash over him. It doesn’t make his choice any clearer, but it at least untangles some of the threads in his head, letting them slide past instead of twisting into further knots.

For a while he just sits and sips and thinks, turning the problem over in his head. He’s got option, sure, he’s just not sure he likes any of them. He doesn’t have to do anything for the lady, but he did kinda give her his word. Then again, his word really isn’t worth much.

His fingers tap against the side of his drink, the sharp _tink_ of bone on glass. He could sell the kid to Dreemurr. He hadn’t been lying, he was certain the King would kill in order to get another human child. But given the option, G would be significantly easier and less… messy. Sans wasn’t sure what the selling price on human kids was these days, but probably enough to keep him and his brother comfortably for at least a couple months. Paps could take a break, and he could get some wiggle room. But it would also mean dealing with Dreemurr, and after everything Sans had done to get away from the King and his Guards, he wasn’t about to accept them with open arms. And he might have done some shit things in his life, but selling a kid into… _that_... wasn’t something he was sure he was comfortable with.

_Tink tink tink._ And then there was Papyrus. Sans bites back a groan. He loves his brother, more than anything, but why in the name of all that was holy did Paps decide that he wanted to be in the Royal Guard? Sans had gotten them away, and Papyrus wanted to go running right back. Finding a human would certainly be a quick way into the King’s good books, but Sans didn’t want his brother in the King’s good books, he wanted him safe. And no, their current life wasn’t a bed of roses, but it was certainly safer than when they had been back with…

Sans shakes his head and takes another gulp of moonshine, trying to dispel thoughts he didn’t want to be thinking.

_Tink tink tink_. But if he was going to get the kid over the river, he was going to need Paps’ help. Sans was a good driver, but as much as he occasionally didn’t want to admit, Papyrus was an expert driver. And if things went south he’d need backup, and while this was the last thing he wanted to drag his brother into, there wasn’t anyone else he trusted to have his back.

_Tink tink tink._

_Tink tink tink._

_Tink tink tink._

“Sans.”

Jolted out of his own skull, Sans looks up into the face of the barkeep and the closest thing he had to a friend. Grillby’s face is as unreadable as always, but for a moment Sans thinks that he catches a flash of something behind the glasses.

“You have the look on your face that usually means business,” Grillby continues. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

Sans drains the last of the glass. “nah, not particularly.” His eyelights flick towards Doggo, smoking a dog treat at one of the tables.

Grillby gives off a slight snap of flame, his version of a raised eyebrow. “Very well. Are you in need of another drink?”

“don’t have the coin for it tonight, i’m afraid.”

Grillby nods and walks off. Sans lets himself slump a bit against the bar. God, what was he doing?

 

The night drags on. Sans smokes and chats and plays cards. But conversations seem to slip right through his skull, and as hard as he tries he knows he isn’t keeping up that carefree attitude very well. His fingers drum against any available surface, his eyelights flicker and dim every now and again. Like a dog gnawing on a bone, his mind won’t let go of this problem. He’d love to get drunk, truly and completely sloshed, but he can’t.

He has business to attend to.

Finally 2 AM rolls around. One by one the other patrons file out, headed home by quiet paths and back alleyways to avoid drawing suspicion. Sans is the last to go.

“g’night grillby,” he calls over his shoulder as he goes.

“Goodnight, Sans.”

He lingers just outside the door for a moment, fiddling with the buttons on his coat. After the warmth and light inside, the alley is biting cold and pitch black. He hears the lock click in place behind him. Step, nod, _jump_ …

...and he’s back inside, just a few feet away from where Grillby is sliding the chain into place on the door.

“So what mess have you gotten yourself into this time?” he asks without turning around.

“booze first,” Sans insists, headed back to the bar, “then talk.”

He’s part of the way through another glass of moonshine when Grillby speaks up again. “If you wanted to get drunk you should have done so when the bar was still open. Now. What was so important that you wouldn’t talk about it when a member of the Guard happened to be in the same room?”

Sans runs a finger over the rim of the glass. “i need to borrow the car.”

“ _The_ car? You mean _my_ car, the one I let you drive when you’re doing business for _my_ restaurant? _That_ car?”

“yes, that car,” Sans sighs. “look, it’ll just be for one night, i’ll pay for the gas, you won’t even notice it’s gone.”

“What is it you need it for?”

Sans goes to take another long drink, but Grillby slaps his hand down over the top of the glass and forces it back down to the bartop. “Sans. What do you need it for.”

“would you believe me if i said it was better if you didn’t know?”

“Not if you’re going to be endangering my property in whatever reckless stunt you have planned.”

“well i mean wreck-less is the plan.” When Grillby crackles in annoyance, Sans just shakes his head. “alright, not my best, i admit. but honestly, grillby, the less you know about this, the better. If the king even catches wind of this, i’m dust.”

Grillby crosses his arms. “Are you insinuating that anything you tell me wouldn’t be kept in the strictest confidence?”

“no! no, that’s not it at all. i…” Sans scrubs at his eyesockets. “i know you’re not going to go blabbing or anything, it’s just… i’m kinda freaking out about this, okay?”

There’s silence for a few beats as Sans works to keep his breathing even and normal.

“Wow,” Grillby finally deadpans. “That was almost emotional honesty. Either you’re more drunk than I thought you were, or you really are worried.”

“shut up,” Sans mumbles.

Grillby sighs, the sound like the settling of logs in a fireplace, and returns to wiping down the bar. Sans dutifully lifts his glass when the rag comes close. It’s not the first time he’s been around after closing. As an almost not-quite employee, sometimes there was business to discuss that other people didn’t need to know about, and as a shady dealer, a friendly barkeep was an invaluable source of information.

Truth be told, Sans much prefered the bar after hours, when there was no one but Grillby around, when he didn’t have to work so hard to keep up a front. He still tried, of course, but the fire elemental had learned long ago to see through a lot of his bullshit, so it didn’t matter so much if he slipped up a little here and there.

It would almost be peaceful, if the tightness in his marrow would just go away.

“I don’t like the idea of lending you my car without knowing what you plan to do with it,” Grillby finally says, his attention still focused on his task, “but you also do very valuable work for me, and I know that you wouldn’t ask unless it was truly necessary. So. I have a delivery run for you to do in three days time. In return for one half of your usual pay, I will allow you to borrow the car after the delivery is complete.”

It’s not a great deal, but Sans can work with it. Maybe he can get the lady to make up the other half of his wage.

“what would i do without you,” he says, forcing a wide grin and sticking out his hand.

“Crash and burn,” Grillby replies, shaking his hand to seal the deal.

Sans chuckles “i’m pretty sure that’s what i’m doing with you,” he says, with a pointed glance towards his hand in Grillby’s.

“Except if you crash my car I’ll make sure you pay every coin..”

“‘course. anyway, see you around, grillby.”

“Goodnight, Sans.”

As Sans hops off the barstool and walks out, he swears for a moment he catches Grillby humming softly to himself.

_There’s a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, turn the dark cloud inside out, ‘til the boys come home._

 

There were just too many steps up to their apartment, and by the time Sans makes it to the landing he’s huffing. No one should have to climb that many flights of stairs at this time of night. After fumbling with the keys, he nudges the door open carefully, aware of the way it squeaked. Paps was a light sleeper and he didn’t want to wake him.

As it turned out, his caution wasn’t necessary. Papyrus was sitting at their small kitchen table, pencil tapping against his teeth as he stared down at a small notebook illuminated by the flickering oil lamp. He looks up as Sans shuts the door behind him.

“YOU’RE LATE, BROTHER.”

Sans tries for nonchalance as he shrugs off his coat and tosses it and his hat onto the back of the couch, smirking a bit at Paps’ glare of disapproval. “grillby’s only closed a half hour or so ago, bro. y’know it does take time to walk back, right?”

“NEVERTHELESS, YOU ARE USUALLY HOME BEFORE THIS.”

“grillby needed to tell me that he has a run for me in a couple days, that’s all.”

He’ll have to tell Papyrus eventually, but not now. Not when he’s looking at him like _that_ , browbone low with worry and eye sockets set with concern. Not when he’s so damn tired he feels like he could fall asleep on his feet. He’s worried himself out and now he’s just empty and wrung out. And so, so tired.

And he knows that it’s his fault that Paps is sitting up waiting for him. Guilt twists in the empty space between his ribs remembering the morning he staggered home after falling asleep at the lady’s door to find Papyrus curled up on the couch, shaking and afraid. Paps had flung himself at him as soon as he’d seen him, rambling about how worried he’d been that something had happened to Sans and he didn’t know what to do or where to go.

Sans hated seeing his brother like that.

So for now he just toes his shoes off and flops onto the couch, hearing the old springs protesting under his weight. “what’re you working on that has you up so late?”

“I HAVE BEEN GOING OVER OUR EXPENSES,” Papyrus says with a huff, closing the notebook.

A vice tightens around Sans’ soul. “like i said, i’ve got a delivery for grillby in three days, we’ll be fine.” Except with half pay. Goddammit, why did nothing ever work out in his favor?

“OF COURSE WE WILL BE FINE. HOW COULD WE BE ANYTHING LESS THAN FINE WITH THE GREAT PAPYRUS ON THE JOB?” Papyrus’ enthusiastic certainty helped to smooth some of Sans’ fears. As long as Papyrus wasn’t worried, he would find a way to make everything work out.

“y’got that right, bro,” Sans yawns, his eye sockets slipping closed.

After a moment or two, he feels Papyrus settle on the other end of the couch and a blanket slide across him. He hums his appreciation, too tired for words.

If Papyrus replies he doesn’t hear it as sleep takes him under.

 

Pain.

Streaking, radiating pain from his arm.

Sans cradles it gently against his chest, but every step jostles the broken bone anyway. He thinks his teeth might crack under the strain of keeping his screams inside.

Papyrus. He needs to find Papyrus.

“paps?” he calls, his voice tight and strained. “hey, papyrus, where are you?”

There’s no response, no sound at all, as though the great emptiness swallowed his words whole. Even the noise of his footsteps is missing. The silence seems to press on him, a physical thing, as if it wants to swallow him too.

Under his bare feet the wooden floors are cold, ice cold and slick with dust and strange colored fluids that spin in sickening kaleidoscopes. It starts out as small ripples, slight disturbances, but slowly increases, liquid moving in impossible ways, climbing, growing. Shapes resolve into fingers, hands, dripping, multicolored hands, squirming and writhing, twisting in unnatural ways, grasping, reaching for him.

Sans’ breath catches in his chest. He stumbles backwards, away, he needs to get away, only to feel something slimy and cold latch around his ankle. Terror freezes him, there’s nowhere to go, there’s no way out, he’s trapped, he’s cornered. With a sickening squelch, the hand crawls higher, twineing around his leg and in a panic he tries to kick, to run, but it’s too late, another one grabs his other leg.

“papyrus!” he screams, “please, papyrus, i need you, please!”

There are hands everywhere, reaching, grasping, grabbing, tearing, clawing, pulling. Pulling him down, down, down, until the liquid rises over his head and his last gasping breath is cut short and he’s sinking and he’s drowning and he’s falling and there’s nothing and no one, pitch black all around him with nothing to hold on to, no up or down, no surface to swim to. He can’t breath and he’s falling and there’s nothing.

He lands in a crunching tangle of limbs, the pain in his arm flaring brighter until his vision wavers black on the edges. It’s fire and acid and endless knives and god he just wants it to end.

“papyrus,” he sobs, “papyrus, please.”

Skeletal hands find his shoulders and drag him to his feet. Cold, clinical eye sockets stare down at him, a gaze devoid of concern or mercy.

The guilt and failure is overwhelming, a tide of black that swallows him whole.

 

Sans’ eye sockets flash open, his breaths coming shaky and uneven. The nightmare still clings to him, and with a start he finds tears down his cheekbones. He wipes them away with a trembling hand, trying to forget the feeling of failure that seems to have settled in his marrow.

It was just a dream. It wasn’t real.

For several minutes, Sans just lays in the dark, unmoving, just breathing. The clock on the wall ticks softly, and he syncs the rise and fall of his chest to its steady beat.

In and out. In and out.

Not real.

In and out.

Eventually, slowly, he notices another sound in the quiet, softer than the clock but no less steady. Sans pushes himself upright, and in the faint moonlight leaking through the threadbare curtains, he can just make out the shape of Papyrus leaning against the opposite arm of the couch, fast asleep. He should be worried, concerned as to why Paps is sleeping there as opposed to his bed where he normally sleeps, but in the moment all he can feel is relief, washing over his bones like moonshine.

Sans scrambles up, only to let himself fall gracelessly against his brother. Papyrus stirs slightly, eye sockets blinking sleepily.

“SANS?” he mumbles.

“shh yeah bro, it’s me, just go back to sleep.”

Lifting an arm, Papyrus pulls Sans closer, tucking him against his side. Sans sighs, feeling tension drain out of him that he didn’t know he was carrying. Eventually, the gentle hum of his brother’s soul and his soft breaths lull him back to sleep.

The nightmares don’t bother him again that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Grillby is humming is, fittingly enough, "Keep the Home Fires Burning" by Ivor Novello.

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone is curious for the rest of the jokes beyond just the punchlines:  
> "I'd tell a joke about paper, but they're all tearable."  
> "Well I was going to tell one about a broken pencil, but I am afraid it's pointless."  
> "I don't understand why I got fired from my job at the calendar factory, all I did was take a few days off."  
> "Did you see the news about a dwarf psychic who escaped jail? He is a small medium at large."


End file.
